Humor Poetry posted September 13, 2021

This work has reached the exceptional level
Why my cousin never made it to America

The Wake of Patrick McKee

by Paul McFarland

The Wake of Patrick McKee

An Irishman Named Pat McKee,
One night in drunken revelry,
With smell of liquor on his breath
Fell from a barstool to his death.

The undertaker took Pat in,
Embalmed him with his favorite gin,
And to permit his au revoir,
He laid Pat out in Kelly's Bar.

And as the lads filed in that night,
They were a glum and mournful sight,
You would have thought they'd been coerced
To travel there to quench their thirst.

So as each sad eyed drinking chum,
While at the bar is overcome,
Between his drinks he interjects
His most profound and last respects.

And then a swaying drunken lout
Holds up a brimming glass of stout
And offers up a heartfelt toast
To their deceased and pickled host.

And as each single drinking cup
Was seen to have its bottom up,
Some rum soaked crony said he'd think
That Pat McKee should have a drink.

They all agreed that they'd invest
Their money in the very best,
So they pulled down his dimpled chin
And poured some Irish whiskey in.

And they could not believe their eyes
When Patrick's corpse began to rise.
It looked around and scratched its head,
And then with shaking voice it said,

"Just pass me, please, a pint of bitters
That I might shake off these jitters.
I need a bracer, for I think
It's been two days since my last drink."

So then it seemed the ice was broken
Once those few words had been spoken,
And that night took new direction
With old Patrick's resurrection.

They knew that Pat came from good stock,
But this performance was a shock.
Though he would only suffer through
A single day of three-day flu,

And never suffered broken bones,
Nor had backaches or kidney stones,
I don't recall it being said
He'd ever come back from the dead.

And there had never been a crowd
Who drank so hard or sang so loud
As those good lads from near and far
Who came that night to Kelly's Bar.

Old Kelly wondered what he'd do
When that nightmarish wake was through,
For they'd be coming through his gate
To bury Pat at half past eight.

But when the morning rolled around,
The lads, all passed out, could be found,
And Patrick was back in his place;
A pleasant smile upon his face.

Paul McFarland

Rhyming Poetry Contest contest entry



When I read this poem to a group, I always tell them that my cousin always wanted to come to America, but but didn't make it because of the following poem. It's always interesting to see when they catch on to the joke.
Pays one point and 2 member cents.

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